


Fraternité

by Iclare



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Subterfuge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-07-03 20:42:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15826566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iclare/pseuds/Iclare
Summary: When the return home from a mission goes sideways, it's up to D'Artagnan to take care of his brothers. The problem is, who will take care of him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've written in a long time so please forgive any errors. Always a fan of D'Artagnan whump. Cross posted on FF.net.

The pelting of rain on Porthos’ hat had him grumbling under his breath and glaring at the dark clouds above him. So far the autumn had been thankfully mild but he knew it was on the turn and the winters in Paris were often cold and miserable. Of course, he thought, the bad weather has to start the day they were returning from delivering a missive that would take them away from the comforts of the city for several days. The thought of sleeping on the wet ground had Porthos huffing. 

Aramis smiled as he glanced in Porthos’ direction, having known his brother long enough to know exactly what he was thinking. Having grown up on the streets, Porthos was used to living with the bare minimum but since becoming a Musketeer and having enough money to sustain him, Porthos had grown accustomed to his home comforts. The idea of camping in the cold and the rain had them all feeling deflated but Porthos most of all. 

Athos led the group forward, silent and vigil as they travelled. Although the only valuable item they had on them was the anxiously awaited reply from the Duc de la Guise currently hidden in Athos’ doublet, that didn’t mean that they were any less of a target. D'Artagnan brought up the rear of the pack, pushing his drenched hair out of his face and shaking the excess water from his gloves. Being a farmer he was used to being outside in all types of weather but it certainly didn’t make it any easier. He was looking forward to getting back to Paris and sitting beside a roaring fire in the nearest tavern. 

He was just thinking of how to convince Athos to let them stop at the next inn that they saw and spend the night out of the rain when a gun shot rang out around them. He ducked instinctively, already reaching for his own pistol and looking around for the shooter. 

A group of bandits were roaring as they ran over the hill towards them, swerving between the trees and firing bullets in their direction. Aramis and Porthos took 2 out before they even had time to pull their triggers. D'Artagnan and Athos took out another 2 as they jumped down from their horses and drew their swords. 

A loud grunt accompanied by a groan from Aramis had Porthos spinning around to look in his friend’s direction. He witnessed 2 of their attackers assault him, yanking on the sword in Aramis’ hand which pulled his shoulder awkwardly and Porthos knew instantly that the shoulder had been pulled out of the socket. With the pommel of a sword smashing into the back of his friend’s head, his knees collapsed beneath him and Aramis slumped to the ground. 

Porthos growled as he rushed towards the attackers. Slashing one across his unguarded stomach and spinning round to reach the other one, a harsh shout of his name from D'Artagnan had him turning to see a pistol pointed at his face. He ducked as the bullet went over his head and hit another if his attackers through the shoulder, dropping him to the ground. 

Porthos nodded his thanks at D'Artagnan as he watched the boy turning to face his own targets. Another pistol shot echoed around them and both remaining Musketeers turned and watched as Athos dropped like a stone to the wet ground, his hands grasping at his thigh. D'Artagnan could already see the blood pooling from the wound but didn’t have any time to process the information before a swift boot was taken to Athos’ head and his eyes rolled back. 

‘Athos!’ D'Artagnan shouted, racing towards him, slashing at any of their enemies that stood in his way. He turned to call out to Porthos but the words were lost in his throat when he seen the butt of a pistol slam into Porthos’ temple and he crumpled. 

For a brief moment D'Artagnan felt dramatically out of his depth. Of course he was a Musketeer, the satisfying weight of the pauldron on his shoulder a constant reminder of how hard he had worked for this, but he suddenly felt very much on his own and for a second, completely helpless 

It was the sharpness of a blade slashing across his hip that stunned D'Artagnan back into the battle. He hissed and jumped back, pressing his left hand to the bleeding cut on his skin. Thanking God that it wasn’t as deep as it could have been, he raised his sword and fixed a glare on the bandit.

There were 2 more running in his direction and he knew he would have to dispatch them quickly so that he could get to his brothers and assess their injuries. He knew they had to be bad enough to render all 3 of them unconscious in the middle of a battle.

A quick jab with his sword had the bandit in front of him dropping to his knees and a swift kick to the chest had him sprawled on the ground, his breathing stopped.

Spinning quickly, D'Artagnan elbowed one of the remaining bandits on the temple before slashing at the other. Moments later both bandits lay on the ground, blood pooling around them.

D'Artagnan pushed his hair out of his face, grimacing as it stuck to the blood on his hand. Pressing his back against a nearby tree he took a second to compose himself and calm his breathing. No sooner had he started than he was running over to where his brothers were lying.

Aramis was just starting to stir when D'Artagnan dropped beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. Aramis opened his eyes with a gasp and grabbed the collar of D'Artagnan’s doublet, pushing him back. When his eyes adjusted to who was actually in front of him, Aramis let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding and offered a small smile to his youngest brother.

‘Thank God,’ Aramis breathed, closing his eyes briefly. He let go of D'Artagnan’s clothing and dropped back to the ground.

‘Are you okay?’ D'Artagnan asked while looking over Aramis, trying to assess the damage to his brother’s body.

‘Nothing serious, just a dislocated shoulder and a mild concussion,’ Aramis shrugged with a smirk, gasping when his arm pulled at the action.

‘Yeah, nothing serious,’ D'Artagnan scoffed with a shake of his head. ‘Will you be ok for a few moments while I check on the others?’

‘Absolutely, go! Let me know their injuries as you go, all my equipment is in my saddle bags. I’m not sure how much help I will be but I’ll try my best,’ Aramis admitted, hissing as he tried to sit himself up, holding his left arm tight to his side with his right hand.

‘Aramis, stop moving,’ D'Artagnan scolded, reaching over and helping Aramis sit up and lean back against a tree.

Aramis flashed him a smile, closing his eyes and swallowing back his nausea. He hated concussions, he didn’t like feeling unsteady and he truly hated not being able to help his brothers when they were injured. At least D'Artagnan wasn’t injured. He would help them.

A glance at his other brothers determined that Athos needed his help sooner than Porthos. The blood seeping from a gunshot wound in his thigh filled D'Artagnan with dread. There was no way Aramis could operate with his arm the way it was and if the blood coating the side of Porthos’ face was anything to go by, he wouldn’t be able to see straight let alone dig out a musket ball.

‘Athos?’ D'Artagnan spoke gently, shaking his shoulder. A groan pulled itself from Athos’ lips as his eyes fluttered open.

‘Did they get it?’ were the first words from Athos’ mouth as he fixed his pain-filled gaze onto D'Artagnan’s face.

‘No, they didn’t get it,’ D'Artagnan assured him, already reaching for the scarf around Athos’ neck to wrap around his leg. ‘You’ve been shot in the leg, try not to move it if you can. The ball’s still in there, I’ll need to get it out but I can’t do it now. We need to get somewhere clean.’

‘You? Why not Aramis?’ Athos questioned, hissing when D'Artagnan finished tying the knot around his leg.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ D'Artagnan scoffed, flashing a smirk at Athos’ scowl. ‘Aramis has dislocated his shoulder and hit his head, he’s not going to be fit enough to operate, unless you want him to cut an extra hole or two?’

The look on Athos’ face had D'Artagnan giving him a smile and pat on his arm.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be fine talking me through it. I can handle it,’ D'Artagnan assured him.

A groan sounded from his other side and Porthos rolled onto his side, gagging as he vomited into the grass. D'Artagnan scrambled over, holding onto Porthos’ shoulder so he didn’t fall into the mess while his other hand rubbed up and down his brother’s back, whispering words of encouragement. 

When it seemed that Porthos was finally done, D'Artagnan helped pull him back and leant him up against a tree. He ran over to his horse who had thankfully not bolted but instead seemed content to wait by the sidelines and observe. Grabbing his water skin he jogged back over to Porthos, offering him the liquid to rinse his mouth out. 

Having rinsed his mouth and taken a few sips to calm the nausea Porthos let out a sigh and let his head fall back against the bark. 

‘Better?’ D'Artagnan asked as he moved over to Aramis and handed him the water skin. 

‘Bit,’ Porthos shrugged, his eyes still closed. He knew if he opened them he’d be seeing two D'Artagnan’s in front of him. He hated concussions. 

‘I’m sure. There’s an inn nearby, we passed it about 30 minutes ago. If we can make it back there we can get fixed up. Athos has been shot and I need to get the ball out. I need to fix Aramis’ shoulder and you both have concussions so it’s probably best if you can lie down in an actual bed,’ D'Artagnan explained as he walked between his friends checking Athos’ wound and the gash on the back of Aramis’ head.

‘It’d be best if you put my shoulder back before we move. I won’t be able to ride with it like this,’ Aramis explained, shuffling back closer to the tree so his back was flush against it, already undoing his belt to put it between his teeth. 

‘Are you sure?’ D'Artagnan questioned, already feeling a cold sweat on his forehead at the thought of causing Aramis more pain. Aramis simply nodded, his teeth biting into the leather of his belt and resting his head against the tree trunk. 

D'Artagnan knelt beside him, drawing in a deep breath as he reached for Aramis’ hand. With one hand gripping Aramis’ hand and the other on his shoulder, he looked into Aramis’ eyes and offered him a small smile. 

‘On three,’ D'Artagnan breathed out, lifting Aramis’ arm and steadfastly ignoring the grunt that came from his mouth. 

‘One,’ D'Artagnan nodded, and with a sudden movement he lifted Aramis’ arm and pushed against his shoulder, an audible pop sounding around them accompanied by an agonised groan. 

Aramis’ eyes fell closed as he pulled the belt from his teeth with his good arm, breathing deeply and trying to stop the tremors in his frame. 

‘Little shit,’ Aramis breathed with a laugh, peeling his eyes open and shooting a mock glare at his youngest brother in front of him. D'Artagnan smiled, wiping the sweat off his forehead and dropping his hand back down to his knee. 

‘I was taught by the best,’ he smirked, reaching over to undo the sash from around Aramis’ waist, wrapping it around his arm and shoulder and tying it tightly so the arm was stabilised. Jumping up, he jogged over to Aramis’ horse and grabbed the reins and led the horse over to its rider. Helping Aramis to his feet was the easy part, helping him onto his horse was another issue altogether. D’Artagnan crouched down and let Aramis place a muddied boot into his hands. After counting to 3, and this time 3 meant 3, he helped lift Aramis onto the back of his horse, reaching up and holding him by his weapons belt to steady him when it looked like he might topple off the other side 

‘I’m good,’ Aramis assured him once the world stopped spinning around him and he swallowed down the urge to vomit up his breakfast. The look D’Artagnan gave him assured him that he did not believe him at all but he knew the boy had his work cut out for him getting the 2 elder Musketeers on their horses. 

As D’Artagnan walked away he felt himself stumbling as his vision sparkled with black dots. He reached for his side and was dismayed to pull his hand back and see the blood coating his glove. 

‘Are you okay, D’Artagnan?’ Aramis questioned having seen his brother trip over his own feet. He raised an eyebrow at the silence that reached back to him. 

‘Y-yes, I’m fine,’ D’Artagnan assured him, turning back and flashing him a smile, ‘Just got up too quickly, the heat of the battle, y’know?’ 

Aramis nodded his head but watched closely as D’Artagnan made his way over to Porthos. The boy was hiding something, Aramis just knew it, but if he was able to be on his own 2 feet and help the others onto their horses then it couldn’t be that bad. 

‘Do you feel well enough to ride on your own?’ D’Artagnan asked Porthos as he crouched down beside him. He smirked as his friend tried in vain to wipe the blood from his temple. As it was removed, more quickly flowed to cover its place. Head wounds did like to bleed. 

‘If you can help me up I’ll stay up,’ Porthos grunted with a nod, holding an arm out to his younger brother. D’Artagnan pulled him to his feet, grunting as Porthos came up but kept falling forward into him. It took all of D’Artagnan’s strength to right his brother, holding onto his shoulders and standing there until Porthos’ eyes cleared to look at him. 

‘I’m fine,’ Porthos stated, already stumbling towards his horse but only staying upright due to D’Artagnan’s fierce grip on his jacket. 

‘Mm hmm, of course you are,’ D’Artagnan chimed in beside him, a chuckle leaving his lips as Porthos turned to glare at him. Using the same technique to get Porthos onto his horse as he had with Aramis, D’Artagnan grabbed the reins and led the horse over to Aramis. 

‘Can you keep an eye on him? I don’t want him wandering off,’ D’Artagnan stated as he handed the reins over to their resident medic. He watched as Aramis nodded with a smile at both him and Porthos, turning into a grin as he watch D’Artagnan duck a swipe from Porthos’ massive paws. 

D’Artagnan could hear Aramis asking Porthos questions as he walked towards Athos, knowing they were the typical questions that were asked when they had suffered from a head wound. He knew Aramis’ head couldn’t be that bad if he remembered to ask Porthos who he was and where he was born. 

Steadfastly ignoring the burn that had started in his side where the blade has hit him he knelt down beside Athos. The oldest Musketeer had his eyes closed but D’Artagnan knew he wasn’t asleep. He looked to be composing himself against the pain. D’Artagnan could only hope that the bullet in his leg hadn’t hit the bone. He was sure he could remove the ball and stitch up the wound but he knew next to nothing about dealing with a broken bone. 

‘Are you going to help me onto my horse or are you going to sit there all day getting your backside wet?’ Athos muttered beside him. His eyes were now opened and D’Artagnan had a feeling that they had been open for a while before he noticed them. 

D’Artagnan gave him an indignant look before reaching down and grasping his forearm. 

‘Ready?’ D’Artagnan asked even as Athos was pushing himself up with his other arm. 

‘Just get me up,’ Athos hissed as he jarred his leg against the ground. D’Artagnan nodded, licking his suddenly dry lips and helped pull Athos to his feet. He stood for a second and let Athos lean against him until the world righted itself before him. 

An almost imperceptible nod from Athos had D’Artagnan moving over to his own horse. He helped Athos into the saddle and had to swallow a moan that threatened to come out of his mouth when he felt a sharp pain from his own wound. Luckily for him Athos was too busy trying not to make a sound himself to notice. D’Artagnan took a deep breath and went to grab the reins of Athos’ horse before pulling himself onto the saddle of his own horse, reaching around Athos to hold the reins. 

He was glad he had the foresight to ride with Athos as no sooner had they started walking back towards the inn than Athos head slumped forward and D’Artagnan had to steady him in the saddle. 

‘He’s out again,’ D’Artagnan called over to Aramis who was walking several meters in front of him. Aramis only nodded in return, no surprise evident on his face. They had all been shot several times, except, he presumed, for D’Artagnan, so they knew how painful it was, especially when the ball was still in the flesh. He knew he had all the necessary materials to get the ball out and sew the wound shut, he just hoped that D’Artagnan would be able to keep a level head long enough to do it. 

Athos was his mentor, the one he looked up to most and he understood how difficult it would be to be to take care of his wounds. Aramis felt the same whenever any of his brothers were hurt but he had been their medic for long enough for it not to affect his work. 

Keeping the horses at an even walk back towards the inn, Aramis kept up the constant stream of conversation towards Porthos. He had been getting responses to begin with but those responses had now been reduced to grunts and groans. At least he was staying awake. If he could just keep him awake until they reached the inn then it would make their jobs a lot easier. 

No sooner had he thought it than the inn was in their sights. It was run down, the sign for Le Cheval Rouge weather beaten and splintered but still visible. There was only 1 light in the window but D’Artagnan was hopeful. Stopping his horse beside Aramis, he handed over the reins before practically falling from its back. He took half a second to compose himself against the pain in his side before walking to the door. It was, thankfully, unlocked and D’Artagnan pushed it open, happy to be out of the rain, if only for a moment. 

‘Hello?’ He called out when there was no one in the room for him to see. He heard shuffled footsteps to his right and an old man appeared, holding a torch aloft in his hand. 

‘What do you want?’ He spoke softly, his free hand reaching for the pistol he kept nearby. 

‘Forgive me, monsieur, but I was hoping that you might have some rooms free for the night? My name is D’Artagnan of the King’s Musketeers. My friends and I were attacked and they are injured. We need somewhere to spend the night and to attend to their wounds,’ D’Artagnan explained, hoping against hope that the glare of the man before him wasn’t directed at him. 

‘King’s Musketeers you say,’ the man nodded, a smile suddenly breaking out on his face, ‘Of course you must stay here! There is no one else here, hasn’t been for some time, but you are more than welcome to stay. I have rooms upstairs that would fit 3 if that would suffice?’ 

D’Artagnan nodded, a grateful smile on his face. 

‘Merci monsieur, we are very grateful for your hospitality. I will get my comrades if you would be so kind as to show us to the room and perhaps provide some hot water so that I may see to their wounds?’ 

The innkeeper only nodded in response, already making his way into the kitchen to start heating up the necessary water. 

Getting his brothers into the inn was much easier said than done. Porthos seemed much more alert now that they had arrived and was able to dismount from his horse without D’Artagnan’s help. He stood with his back pressed up against the stonewall of the inn as he watched D’Artagnan lead all 4 horses to the hitching post at the front of the inn and tied the horses to it. 

‘There is a barn at the back, I will see to the horses once we are settled,’ D’Artagnan assured his brothers. Aramis nodded in return, reaching down and grabbing D’Artagnan’s outstretched hand and used him as balance to get down from his saddle. 

He groaned as his feet hit the ground, the reverberations spiking their way through his shoulder.  
‘Easy,’ D’Artagnan cooed, rubbing his hand up and down Aramis’ back until he was back with him. 

‘Thank you brother,’ Aramis breathed, a smile on his face that barely reached his drooping eyes. 

‘Porthos, if you are able, can you help Aramis in? The innkeeper has rooms available upstairs and will show you to them,’ D’Artagnan explained as he walked over to his own horse, already bracing his legs to be able to get Athos off his horse without both of them falling to the ground. 

Once he was sure that Aramis and Porthos had both gone inside, D’Artagnan took a second to gasp out a breath, pushing one hand against his side. He was starting to think that he had been hit worse than originally suspected. It would have to wait though, his brothers were in far worse condition. 

See to them then see to yourself, he thought, the sentence running on a loop in his mind as he steeled himself against the pain. 

He reached up and around Athos’ waist, pulling him towards him and locking his knees in anticipation of the extra weight that was about to hit him. Athos was not the heaviest of his brothers, that honour went to Porthos and his muscles, but when he was unconscious, the dead weight was hard to shift. 

As he pulled Athos off the horse and into his chest, a moan sounded from Athos’ lips and his eyes fluttered open. 

‘Hello,’ D’Artagnan greeted with a smile, ‘You’re just in time for the party, can you help me get you inside?’ 

The words seemed to make no sense to Athos as he looked around him with lidded eyes. 

‘We’re at an inn, I’m going to fix you up but I need your help to get in. Do you think you can do that?’ D’Artagnan explained, already throwing Athos’ left arm over his shoulder and standing up straight. This seemed to sink in as Athos nodded and took as much of his own weight on his undamaged right leg as he could. 

Getting upstairs had been a challenge and by the end of the journey both Musketeers were gasping for air. They stumbled towards the only open door in the hallway and were greeted by the sight of the 2 remaining Musketeers already sitting on their chosen beds. 

Looking around D’Artagnan could see 2 proper beds and a cot in the corner, the cot that Aramis had already claimed. In the back of his head D’Artagnan recognised that there was no bed for him to sleep in but he pushed the thought away. He had too much to get done to sleep for a while anyway. 

There was a soft knock on the door and the innkeeper stepped in, holding a tray out towards the men. 

‘I’ve put some water on to heat for you but in the meantime I’ve brought you something to eat and some wine to warm you up a bit. Terrible weather we’re having today, and for you to travel in it, it must be awful,’ he spoke as he walked over to the table by the wall and set the tray of bread, cheese, and cured meats down. 

‘Merci monsieur, we are in your debt,’ Aramis bowed his head slightly before making his way over to the table. 

‘Nonsense, I don’t get very many visitors in these parts so it’s nice to have a bit of company, even if it is only for a brief visit,’ the innkeeper explained, ‘My name is Victor, please let me know if there is anything else you require while you are here, I am only too happy to oblige. I will bring the water up in a few moments.’ 

‘I will come with you, monsieur, I need to stable our horses and get them out of the rain,’ D’Artagnan voiced as he walked towards the door. ‘See if you can both eat something and try and get Athos to eat something too if he is able. I’ll be back to see you in a bit.’ 

With that D’Artagnan left the room followed by the innkeeper who closed the door soundlessly behind them. Aramis’ gaze didn’t leave the door, his eyebrows furrowed as he chewed on a piece of bread. 

‘What?’ Porthos asked as he poured a cup of wine for himself and Aramis, most of which went into the cup which he was rather surprised at. 

‘I’m not sure,’ Aramis uttered, taking the proffered glass from Porthos’ hand, ‘I just think D’Artagnan is hiding something.’ 

‘Wouldn’t be like him,’ Porthos offered with a smirk, knocking the cup of wine back before setting it on the table. ‘Look, he’s upright, he’s walking, there are no obvious injuries, and he’s managed to get all of us here without incident. If he is hiding something it’s obviously not that bad.’ 

Aramis hummed in response, his face unconvinced even as he stood up and walked over to the bed where Athos lay, attempting to get him to eat something. 

Outside, D’Artagnan had managed to get all 4 horses into the barn and removed their saddles, the saddlebags piled near the door ready to be taken inside. He quickly brushed them down before putting out enough feed to last them for a while before he turned to leave. 

A sharp burn caught him as he twisted and he was left nearly on his knees, only the nearby wall saved him from hitting the floor. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before leaning back against the wall and pulling up his shirt to inspect the damage. 

He cursed to himself as he finally seen what the blade had done, the cut far deeper than he initially thought. He was sure helping 3 burly Musketeers on and off horses hadn’t done him any good either. He grabbed a bandage from Aramis’ saddle bags and pressed it against the wound, the pain of which nearly had his knees buckling beneath him. He ignored the blood still dripping down his side, staining the tops of his trousers and pulled his shirt back down. He would deal with it later. 

For now, he had his brothers to take care of.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time D’Artagnan arrived outside the room they were staying in he could feel the back of his neck dripping with sweat and small tremors wracking his body. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he opened the door and walked in.

Dropping the saddle bags beside the table, he reached over and snagged a chunk of bread. While eating was the last thing on his mind and his appetite had completely deserted him, he knew he would need to keep his energy up. By the darkness gathering outside he reckoned it to be around dinner time and if he wanted to get any sleep that night he knew he would need to get started. 

‘Aramis,’ D’Artagnan started, looking beseechingly into the medic’s eyes, ‘I need to remove the bullet from Athos’ leg. Can you make sure I’m doing it right?’ The sudden feeling of self-doubt threatened to overwhelm him and he had to turn away before Aramis saw the glimmer of panic in his eyes. 

He distracted himself by making his way over to Athos’ bed with Aramis’ saddle bag and started to unwrap the equipment he would need. Aramis was beside him a moment later, a soft hand squeezing the back of his neck. 

‘I will be with you the whole time, mon ami,’ Aramis assured him with a smile. He frowned as he felt D’Artagnan’s hair against his hand. 

‘You need to get out of those clothes and get dry soon though, D’Artagnan. You’re soaked through,’ Aramis warned, sitting in the chair that Porthos pushed towards Athos’ bed. 

‘I will soon, I promise,’ D’Artagnan nodded, the lie falling from his lips. It amazed him how easily he was able to push his own cares aside when it came to his brothers. Having grown up an only child and losing his mother at such a young age, D’Artagnan always tried to put the needs of his father first. Always up as soon as the dawn broke to help him on the farm, no matter how much his tiredness urged him to rest. Never complaining when the food on his plate at night seemed less as the winter drew closer. Even when they had travelled to Paris, he made sure that his father rested as often as possible, his age weakening his reserves. 

When he met the Musketeers, les inseparables, after he was sure they weren’t going to kill him in the middle of their garrison, he felt something click. Freeing Athos and helping Porthos and Aramis win in the fight against Gaudet and the traitors had made him feel like he needed to help them. It felt ridiculous at the time, what would 3 Musketeers need him to protect them for? But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had to stay with them.

Apparently the feeling was mutual as more often than not he was being pushed behind one of his brothers before a fight, or feeling one of them watching over him in the middle of a card game, ensuring that his opponent was neither cheating nor stupid enough to accuse him of the same, or even small things like finding a cake or extra cheese tucked into his saddle bags when he was sent out on solo missions. 

A sudden warmth swept over him and he nodded to himself, he would do this because his brothers needed him. He needed to protect them now. Sitting down beside Athos on the bed, he removed Athos’ boots and leather trousers, leaving him in just his braies and used a blade to cut around the bullet hole so he could see the wound more clearly. At some stage while he had been out attending to the horses their host had brought them buckets of cold and steaming hot water along with a selection of towels. 

Dipping a small towel into the now warm water, he wiped away the excess blood from Athos’ pale skin, happy to see that at least the wound had stopped bleeding. He knew it would start again once he took the bullet out but at least he had been granted a short reprieve. 

Aramis handed him a blade that he had soaked in brandy provided by Victor and gave him an encouraging smile. D’Artagnan took the blade with a sigh, forcing his hand to stop trembling as he pressed it against Athos’ thigh. 

Sending a short prayer to anyone watching him from above he pushed the blade down and into the wound. The most resistance the now unconscious man offered was a moan and a pull of his leg, which Porthos was quick to press down onto the bed to prevent any further movement. 

D’Artagnan held his breath as he moved the blade around inside the wound, his eyes growing wide as he felt the tip hit metal. With a steadiness that belied his fear, he twisted the blade and pushed the musket ball up as far as he could. With his free hand he reached in, past the blood oozing out of the wound grasped the ball between his forefinger and thumb. He held it in the palm of his hand, staring at it with a small smile. 

Aramis chuckled and gave him an encouraging pat on his back, the excitement in Porthos’ laugh filling the room. 

‘Well done whelp,’ Porthos congratulated, offering a punch to D’Artagnan’s shoulder before going back to the table to pour more wine, something that he knew would help calm everyone’s nerves. 

Taking the needle and thread, he concentrated hard to not allow his trembling fingers to show as he threaded it. Wiping the blood away from the wound, he whispered a quick apology in Athos’ direction before he doused the wound with brandy. The fact that Athos didn’t even flinch filled his heart with dread and he turned to look at Aramis. 

‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ Aramis explained, reaching over and placing a hand against Athos’ forehead. ‘But he has no fever and I pray that it will remain that way.’

D’Artagnan nodded at the explanation, taking a deep breath and releasing it before piercing his brother’s skin and pulling the thread through. He ignored everything else that was happening around him, only focusing on the task at hand. He could feel Aramis’ presence beside him, watching closely as he stitched the wound shut. He could only hope he was doing it well. He had never sewn a wound closed before and he didn’t want to leave Athos with a hideous scar. 

Aramis’ hand on his arm jolted him out of his thoughts and he turned to look at him, holding the needle in his hand. 

‘You’re shaking,’ Aramis stated with a frown. He looked at D’Artagnan’s face, his frown deepening. He could see the sweat dotting his brow, his cheeks flushed pink, and the overwhelming exhaustion in his brother’s eyes. 

‘I’m fine,’ D’Artagnan assured him, pulling his arm away and resuming his stitching. ‘It’s just a lot of pressure, I don’t want to do this wrong.’ 

‘You’re doing fine pup,’ Porthos called from across the room, a cup of wine firmly stuck in his grip. 

‘And you might want to slow down with that wine brother, you have a concussion remember? There’s no point in getting yourself into a stupor if we’re going to have to wake you every few hours. You know the drill,’ Aramis warned, standing up and removing the cup from Porthos’ grasp, smirking at the indignant look on his brother’s face. 

Porthos spluttered at the medic, glowering at the grin on his face and crossing his arms across his chest. 

‘It’s ok, petit enfant, you can have some when you feel better,’ Aramis goaded, taking a sip of the wine still in his hand. Porthos’ glare intensified. 

‘Need I remind you that you also have a concussion and I will not be dealing with either of you feeling the effects of your drink of choice,’ D’Artagnan called across the room, cutting the thread attached to Athos’ skin and placing the needle on the table beside the bed. He didn’t want to move it too far as he had a feeling he might be needing it for himself. 

A hearty laugh left Porthos’ lips as he stood up and started to undress. If they were staying for at least a few days to allow Athos’ wound to start healing, he might as well get comfortable. Stripped down to his undershirt and braies he slid under the blankets and slumped onto his stomach, his arm hanging off the edge of the bed. 

‘Wake me whenever you need to but if you throw any water over me you will be sleeping out with the horses,’ Porthos mumbled around his pillow. 

Aramis chuckled, throwing a glance over to D’Artagnan but the boy was still focused on wrapping the bandage as precisely as he could around Athos’ thigh. 

‘You did well pup,’ Aramis assured him as D’Artagnan finished tying the bandage and covering Athos with a blanket. 

D’Artagnan flashed a smile at Aramis, the elder Musketeer sighing when it didn’t reach his eyes. If he was honest it barely reached his lips. He could see the tiredness oozing from his brother’s body and knew the sooner they sorted his shoulder the sooner they could both get some well deserved rest. 

‘Right then let’s get this shoulder wrapped then I can get some sleep,’ Aramis grinned, reaching up to unwrap the sash the was currently keeping his shoulder stabilised. He undid and removed his doublet with difficulty before settling back on his cot looking sadly down at his boots. 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and smiled at Aramis as he knelt before him. 

‘Need some help?’ He smirked already reaching for the medic’s foot. The task was completed quickly and the boots were discarded at the end of the cot. Aramis sighed with relief and flexed his toes, scooting back on the cot until his back was pressed against the wall. 

‘You need to stabilise my shoulder against my chest, it shouldn’t take more than a day and I’ll be right as rain,’ Aramis explained, handing the bandage to D’Artagnan and placing his arm against his chest. 

D’Artagnan wrapped the bandage around Aramis’ arm and back as gently as possible. His eyebrows furrowed as he focused, wanting to make sure that the bandage was tight enough to be effective but not to cause the medic anymore pain. 

‘That’s good, really good,’ Aramis praised as D’Artagnan finished tying the bandage in place. Aramis sighed as he shuffled on the cot so that he was lying down. He wanted to remove his trousers but he felt his energy flagging dramatically now that he was lying down and comfortable. The food and wine had warmed him as well and he could feel his eyes closing. 

‘Get changed D’Artagnan then get some sleep. You deserve it. Wake me in a few hours and I’ll take over the watch,’ Aramis mumbled as he watched D’Artagnan place a blanket over him and smile. 

‘I’m just going to go and get some fresh water then I’ll get some rest,’ D’Artagnan spoke softly, pulling the blanket up over his brother’s shoulders. He was stunned at how easily the lies were coming from his mouth tonight. He knew he would get some rest but he needed to see to his wound first. Then he had to wake his brothers every few hours to make sure they would wake up. And then he had to check Athos’ wound to make sure no infection set in and there was no fever…

The list kept growing the longer he thought about it and he felt his shoulders slump under the overwhelming responsibility. He would do it all, they were his brothers and he would look after them as if they were his blood, but he felt so tired. 

Grabbing the needle and thread that he had left on the table, he put them into Aramis’ saddle bags and slung it over his shoulder, grabbing his own as he walked towards the door. 

‘D’Artagnan?’ Porthos’ sleepy voice called out from the other side of the room as he turned his head to look at his youngest brother. 

‘Go to sleep Porthos, I’m just going to thank Victor then I’m going to get some rest,’ D’Artagnan assured him as he stepped towards him, readjusting the blankets so that all of his brother was covered. And that was no easy feat. 

Porthos simply nodded in his response, turning away to face the wall again and resuming his snoring. 

D’Artagnan shook his head with a fond smile before looking at each of the Musketeers in turn. Once he was assured that all were sleeping peacefully, or unconscious in Athos’ case, he crept out of the room and closed the door softly behind him. 

A soft shadow snuck around the corner and it was shortly followed by Victor’s frame, a bucket dangling from one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. 

‘I brought some more hot water up incase you needed it and some more brandy. You boys need to warm up and get some rest,’ Victor explained with a smile. 

‘Merci monsieur, I don’t know how I can thank you enough for your help. Would you mind if I used one of your other rooms? We are more than happy to pay you extra for it,’ D’Artagnan nodded towards the closed door of the room next door. 

‘Of course, of course, you must have a bed to sleep in. You look worn out,’ Victor scolded as he walked towards the door and opened it. He set the bucket of water and the brandy on the table before lighting the candles in the room to give more light. 

‘There are extra blankets in the drawers should you need them,’ Victor spoke as he pointed to the chest at the end of the bed, ‘I’m going to retire myself but my room is downstairs if you need me. Please do not hesitate to come and get me.’ 

D’Artagnan smiled warmly at the old man. 

‘Merci, I hope I will have no need for your assistance tonight but I appreciate the offer.’ 

Victor nodded and said his goodbyes before exiting the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. 

D’Artagnan sighed and collapsed onto the bed. He could feel his body shivering and knew he needed to fix his wound now but his energy had fled. He took several moments to gather his courage before standing up again. 

He removed his doublet with a hiss and threw it onto the bed before reaching down and pulling his blood stained shirt over his head. He almost cried out at the pain he caused by pulling at the wound on his side but managed to bite his lip in time. 

He removed his weapons belt and set it to the side. He would need the leather of it soon enough. He took out the needle and thread from Aramis’ saddle bags and doused them with the brandy that Victor had provided. Threading it carefully, this time taking several attempts before the thread went through, he watched as his clumsy fingers shook. 

He stood with his back pressed flush against the wall so that he could see the wound clearly. Dipping a towel into the nearby water he wiped the blood away from the cut and frowned at the depth of it. He put the leather of his belt between his teeth and bit down hard. Mumbling a short prayer and closing his eyes he grabbed the bottle of brandy and poured it over the wound. 

He bit harder into the belt, sure there would be teeth marks in it when he removed it from his mouth and struggled not to let his knees collapse beneath him. He set the bottle back onto the table and took some deep breaths through his nose. He could do this. He would sew the wound shut, hopefully without crying, then go and keep vigil over his brothers. He would sleep when they were better. 

Sleep sounded so appealing to him. He shook his head to remove the black dots from his vision and grabbed the needle and thread. Pushing back against the wall he looked down as he pierced his skin with the needle. His eyes filled with tears and he moaned against the sharp pain. Stopping when the first stitch was through he took a moment to compose himself. He could feel sweat dripping down his back and his eyes felt as though they would fall closed any second and wouldn’t reopen. 

Steeling himself against the pain and exhaustion he soldiered on, making stitch after stitch in his pale skin, struggling hard not to cry out. His brothers were in the next room, resting from their own injuries. They didn’t need him disturbing them. He knew if he woke Aramis and told him what had happened the medic would conjure up a pain draught that would put him out of his misery. 

He scolded himself for even thinking of waking his brother. Aramis needed rest. His relief could wait. 

Finally the last stitch was made and he tied the thread off, cutting the remainder away and setting the needle on the bed. He allowed the belt to drop from his jaws onto the floor and sucked in a shaky breath. 

Unravelling a bandage he quickly wrapped it around his waist and tied it at the side. He grabbed a clean, dry shirt from his saddle bag and threw it on before reaching into the chest and grabbing a pile of blankets. 

The world spun before him and he fell against the door frame, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. When he was sure he would be able to stand on his own two feet, he made his way out of the room and snuck back into the room where his brothers were thankfully still sleeping. 

He closed the door behind him, placing the blankets on the floor beside the wall and dropping down on top of them. This would have to do as a resting spot, he thought as he sat back against the wall. He ached to sleep in the actual bed next door but he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on his brothers from there. 

He rested his head back against the wall, wiping the sweat from his forehead and ignoring the trembling running through his body. His skin felt as though it were pulled too tight across his bones and the room was dimming around him. 

He didn’t notice when his eyes slipped shut and his head fell forward.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and sent kudos my way for this - it means the world to me! This chapter is a little shorter than the previous ones but I wanted to get something out to you asap! And please note this is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

A sudden crash of thunder awoke D’Artagnan with a start, his body jolting forward. He hissed harshly as the fresh stitches pulled in his side and he closed his eyes against the burning pain. Opening his eyes he gazed around the room, noting the soft light from the candles on the two tables in room highlighting his various brothers in their beds. 

He rested his head back against the wall, sucking in a deep breath before exhaling slowly. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, still unsure if he had fallen asleep or unconscious, but it didn’t seem that he had slept for too long. None of his brothers had moved from their previous positions and he only felt a slight sting of envy at their sleeping states. How he wished he was able to lie down and sleep. 

His eyes burned and he felt so lightheaded he was afraid he wasn’t going to be able to get to his feet. His head turned as he heard a groan come from Athos’ bed. He quickly crawled across on his knees until he was by the bedside, grasping at the eldest Musketeer’s hand. 

‘Athos? You with me?’ He asked, squeezing the cold hand tightly. 

Athos’ only response was to groan again and turn his head towards D’Artagnan. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as he struggled to open them. 

‘That’s it, come on, plenty of wine here if you only let me know you’re alright,’ D’Artagnan teased, raising himself up on his knees and looking into his brother’s face. 

Athos’ eyes slipped open and it took him a few moments to recognise the face before him. 

‘D’Art?’ He questioned, turning his head to look around the room. ‘Where am I?’

D’Artagnan let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. ‘You’re safe. We’re at an inn not far from where we were attacked. Do you remember anything?’ 

‘I was shot?’ Athos asked, his head flopping back to face his youngest brother. 

‘Yes you were but you’re going to be alright. I’m glad you’re awake, you worried me,’ D’Artagnan scolded as he let go of Athos’ hand and placed it back on the bed. He struggled to his feet, taking a second to lock his knees before they collapsed under him. He walked over to the table near Porthos’ bed and poured Athos a cup of water. 

Trying his best not to stumble back he held the cup and raised Athos’ head with his other hand, helping the Musketeer to drink. Athos gulped the water like a man in a drought before D’Artagnan took the cup away. 

‘Don’t want you to be sick,’ D’Artagnan warned, setting the cup on the table beside Athos’ bed. 

Athos took a few deep breaths before looking at D’Artagnan. 

‘I was promised there would be wine.’

D’Artagnan choked out a laugh, shaking his head fondly at his eldest brother. 

‘I never promised wine, I simply stated that there was wine and you can have as much as you want after you rest for a while longer,’ D’Artagnan nodded, pulling the blankets back up over Athos’ shoulder.

Athos stared at his youngest brother’s face, noting the glazed eyes, the pink cheeks, and the sweat dotting his forehead.

‘Are you alright? You weren’t hurt were you?’ Athos questioned, struggling to keep his eyes from falling closed. The overwhelming tiredness threatened to smother him. 

‘Just a scratch,’ D’Artagnan assured, shaking his head, ‘I’ll be fine, Aramis took care of it.’ 

And again the lies fell so easily. He watched as Athos narrowed his eyes and looked at him. He had a way of looking at him that made D’Artagnan feel as though he were staring into his very thoughts. 

‘I thought Aramis was too hurt to look at injuries?’ Athos asked knowingly, 

‘Your’s needed stitching,’ D’Artagnan explained, ‘Get some more rest and we can get back to Paris sooner.’ 

Athos wanted to call his brother out, knowing the boy was hiding something. A sudden thought burst into his head and he looked beseechingly at his brother. 

‘The letter?’ 

‘Where you left it,’ D’Artagnan assured him, settling in the chair beside the bed and stretching out his legs. 

‘Good, good,’ Athos mumbled as the adrenaline fled as quickly as it had came. Now that he knew their cargo was safe he could relax. His mind became fuzzy as he closed his eyes. Through the tiredness he felt as though he was forgetting something. The thought quickly left his mind as sleep claimed him once again. 

D’Artagnan sighed, closing his eyes and resting his arms on his knees. Athos seemed coherent enough and Aramis had already explained to him about the blood loss. He would be fine. 

He knew he should check on Porthos and Aramis to make sure they too were fine but exhaustion hit him and he struggled to lift himself. Another sudden crash of thunder had him jumping and adrenaline spiked throughout his body. 

Another crash sounded and he realised it wasn’t thunder at all and it wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from downstairs. Quickly he went next door and grabbed his sword and his pistol before sneaking down the stairs, pressing his back against the wall to gain a better vantage point. 

He saw 2 men with hoods turning over tables and throwing chairs. He ducked his head to see further and spotted Victor sat on a chair in the corner, a gag wrapped tightly around his mouth, a hand gripping painfully at his shoulder. 

‘Where are they?’ The hand’s owner hissed, his face pressed close to Victor’s. Victor shook his head, glaring hard at the bandit. 

‘They must be upstairs,’ a voice called as it walked down the corridor where Victor’s private rooms were located. ‘There’s nothing back there.’ 

‘Pierre, Thomas, go check upstairs. Find that letter. Kill them if you need to but do not come back without that letter,’ a gruff voice ordered, moving away from Victor. D’Artagnan noted the relief that sagged from Victor’s shoulders and he reached up to remove the gag. 

D’Artagnan took a deep breath and glanced up the stairs. He would protect his brothers and their cargo at all costs. He stepped down the last few stairs and raised his sword in the direction of the bandits. 

‘There is no need for killing,’ D’Artagnan stated, watching as the 4 bandits in the room raised their respective weapons. ‘The letter is not here.’ 

‘Well then where is it? You can’t have delivered it to Paris already, it must be here,’ Victor’s captor growled, taking several steps towards D’Artagnan. 

‘Your friends were not able to take the letter from us before, what makes you think you can?’ D’Artagnan said smugly, ignoring the piercing pain in his side at the reminder of what they had gone through to try and get the letter from them. 

‘No they weren’t able to but rest assured I will. You are injured, as are the others, so I don’t think you’ll be putting up much of a fight.’ the leader laughed, walking closer to D’Artagnan until he was standing beside him. D’Artagnan squared his shoulders and glared into the bandit’s eyes. 

‘The letter is not here, it was hidden before we came here. Do you think we would be stupid enough to keep the letter when we may not be able to defend it?’ D’Artagnan stated, raising his chin in defiance. The leader stared into D’Artagnan’s eyes, looking for evidence of a lie. 

‘He makes sense Felix,’ Pierre shrugged, glancing between his leader and the Musketeer. 

Felix nodded, his hand grabbing his pistol and pointing it at D’Artagnan’s face. 

‘Very well, Musketeer,’ he sneered, taking the safety off the gun, ‘You will take us to the letter. If you refuse I will happily go up and kill your friends where they lie.’ 

D’Artagnan glared at the bandit in front of him. Reluctantly and with a sigh he nodded. He would not let his brothers be murdered when they had no opportunity to defend themselves. He could at least distract the bandits for long enough for the other musketeers to rest and recover before they discovered what had happened. 

‘Drop your weapons and get your horse,’ Felix ordered, turning on his heel and heading out the door and back into the rain. Pierre stood by the door as the others left, training his pistol in D’Artagnan’s direction. 

D’Artagnan placed his pistol and his sword on the nearby table before walking over to where Victor still sat slumped in the chair. 

‘Are you alright?’ D’Artagnan asked, crouching beside the old man. The pull of his stitches had him wincing before he could stop himself. 

‘I am fine, a bit roughed up but nothing I can’t handle,’ Victor assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you alright? You’ve been injured.’ 

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ D’Artagnan smirked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small leather purse. 

‘I know it is a lot to ask of you monsieur but could you check on my friends in a few hours and make sure they are well? Take this for your troubles and for the rooms,’ He muttered to avoid being overhead by the guard at the door. He pressed the purse into Victor’s hand. Victor shook his head vehemently causing D’Artagnan’s heart to drop. 

‘I’m sorry I don’t have any more money, this is all I have,’ D’Artagnan looked at the purse and glanced back up at Victor, panic highlighted in his eyes. As he had only recently been commissioned into the Musketeers he was still using his hard earned pay to clear the debts that he had accrued following the destruction of his farm. 

He had to repay Monsieur Bonacieux for the many months of rent that was owed, he had to pay to rebuild his farm, he had to purchase new boots and several new shirts - constantly being involved in sword battles was doing nothing for his wardrobe - and that was before he paid for his own food and the many, many bottles of wine he owed his brothers for their help. Being the youngest had its downfalls. 

Victor tutted before snatching the purse from D’Artagnan’s hand. 

‘That is not what I meant, boy. I will look after them with no charge, you do not need to pay me for that. I will, however, keep your money here so it is safe. I cannot trust those men not to rob you as well,’ Victor explained, pocketing the purse and squeezing D’Artagnan’s trembling shoulder. 

D’Artagnan breathed his thanks, pushing himself to his feet and heading towards the door. He took a moment to glance towards the stairs where his brothers were sleeping upstairs. Mouthing a short prayer he smiled at Victor before heading out the door into the storm, Pierre closing the door with a click behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the delay on this chapter – I struggled to get it right. Also feeling the need to do some one-shots. I’m loving The Musketeers and obviously d’Artagnan whump so if you have any prompts you want to read send me a message! 

\--------------------------------------------------

The moment D’Artagnan entered the barn he was met with a strong back hand to his face. He saw stars for a moment and struggled to keep his feet until he regained his footing and looked up to see the angry eyes of his captor. 

‘When I said get your horse I meant now, not whenever you felt like it,’ Felix growled, throwing a swift punch D’Artagnan’s way. Ordinarily he would have been able to dodge it like it was second nature to him and probably deliver a matching one of his own but his head felt like it was full of cotton wool and his side was screaming at him. D’Artagnan fell hard against the wooden wall behind him, slumping to the floor. He looked up to glare at Felix, turning his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood. 

‘Get on your horse and so help me God if you don’t do it now I will kill you where you sit,’ Felix spoke softly but there was no hiding the venom from his tone. 

D’Artagnan’s lips lifted in a smile and he scoffed at him. 

‘I don’t think God is going to be helping you in any way,’ He shot back, pushing himself to his feet and standing at his full height. ‘And don’t forget you need me. I wouldn’t be thinking about killing me anytime soon if you want that letter.’ 

Felix all but snarled at him before stalking out of the barn and leaving Pierre in charge. D’Artagnan watched him leave with a glare. He walked over to his horse and started fixing the saddle to her back. He could feel Pierre watching him, could feel his pistol trained on his back, and the memory of the night his father was murdered came flooding back to him. It felt eerily similar; the rain pelting the roof of the barn, the gun pointed at his back, it felt almost overwhelming. 

He glanced over his shoulder as he buckled the saddle under the belly of his mare. Pierre’s eyes were darting around the barn, the pistol at the end of his arm trembling. D’Artagnan raised his eyebrow at him as he stood. Pierre’s eyes shot towards him and he involuntarily smiled at him. D’Artagnan, despite his surprise, smiled back. 

‘You should have got your cloak, the rain doesn’t seem to be letting up,’ Pierre spoke softly with a smile. D’Artagnan regarded him for a moment. He didn’t seem to be much older than himself, maybe 22 at the most. An ally perhaps? 

D’Artagnan shrugged, wincing as he felt the stitches pull. He was sure at least one of them had ripped; he could vaguely feel the trickle of blood running down his side. ‘It’s not like I was given much of a choice by your boss.’ 

Pierre nodded, putting the safety back on his pistol and attaching it back onto his belt. ‘He doesn’t have a lot of patience. Maybe try not to make him angry?’ 

D’Artagnan scoffed, grabbing the reins of his horse and walking towards the door. ‘I’m certainly not trying. My friends would say I just have a talent for it.’ 

Outside the barn, and unhappily back in the rain, D’Artagnan mounted his horse. Felix tossed a rope to Pierre and watched as he tied the Musketeer’s hands together.

Struggling in the dim starlight the group set off, D’Artagnan’s mind going into overdrive. He had to come up with a plan, and soon. 

\----------------------------------

Back at the inn, Victor was pacing back and forth beside the stairs that led to the rooms on the first floor. He glanced up at the landing every time he walked past them before shaking his head and resuming his pacing. 

He had spent several minutes after the bandits and the young Musketeer had ridden off sitting in the chair and composing himself. He was well aware how close he had come to losing his life. He righted the tables and chairs of the dining area and made sure everything in his room was as it was before the bandits had attacked. 

His hands were in fists by his side as he struggled with the thoughts of what he should do. He felt as though he should wake the other Musketeers and let them know what had happened with the hope that they would chase down their friend and rescue him. However he was also not aware of how badly the other three were injured or if they were even capable of riding. 

He could tell that the boy was injured; he may have been able to school his features but Victor had seen the sweat on his brow and the tremble of his limbs as he left the inn. D’Artagnan’s purse of money weighed heavily in his pocket. He could faintly hear the coins jangling as he paced. He had promised he would keep the money safe for him and he would keep that promise. He knew that these were all the funds the boy had in the world and he wouldn’t let the unscrupulous attackers take it from him. 

It was the clinking of the coins in the end that made his decision for him. Creeping his way up the stairs he paused in front of the room where the three older Musketeers were housed. He knocked quietly and waited a few moments to see if there was a response. None came. 

He inhaled sharply before opening the door as quietly as he could. One thing he was sure of was that he shouldn’t sneak up on a trained soldier. He was likely to lose his life.

Noting that none of the soldiers had noticed him enter the room, he glanced around and took them in. 

The young dashing looking one was curled up on the cot nearest the door, the blankets wrapped up around his chin, his breathing even. His face had a slight green tinge to it and his brows were furrowed with pain. Victor quickly grabbed one of the many cloths that were on the table and dunked it into the bucket of cool water. Wringing out the excess, he placed it on the man’s forehead, noting that a small sigh of content escaped his lips. 

Victor’s lips quirked into a smile as he went over to the bed furthest from the door. The dark skinned man lay on his stomach, his limbs pointing in every direction, and loud snores escaping his mouth. He gathered that the three men had been on multiple missions together over their time for the other two seemed not to notice. 

While the soldier had looked peaky when Victor had first seen him, his colour seemed relatively restored and Victor moved away from him towards the last soldier. 

The eldest Musketeer lay on his back, a large lump evident under the blankets where the bandage was wrapped thickly around his thigh. The blood-soaked bandages that D’Artagnan had used on him lay to the side ready to be disposed of. He grabbed another cloth and no sooner had he wet it and placed it on the man’s forehead than a hand shot up from under the blankets and grabbed his wrist. 

He jumped back but the hand had a tight grip on his arm and he was unable to move far. He looked into the face of the soldier on the bed and the ice blue eyes glared back at him. 

‘Who are you?’ The soldier all but growled, tightening his grip on the man as he looked around the room for his comrades. Seeing two of them sound asleep his shoulders relaxed a little. 

‘I am Victor and you are in my inn. Do not worry, I am here to look after you,’ Victor explained, thankful when the man released his wrist. He could see the confusion on the soldier’s face as he pushed himself into a seated position, biting his tongue to stop the groan that wanted to escape his lips. 

Victor darted over the table and poured him a cup of wine, helping him drink it when it was obvious his hands were shaking too badly. 

‘I am Athos. Apologies for attacking you monsieur,’ Athos mumbled, his eyes drooping closed. 

‘No need for apologies, I understand you have all been attacked recently. It is only natural that you would want to protect yourself.’ 

Athos nodded, reaching his hand out and taking the cup half filled with wine from Victor’s hand. He was feeling more awake now and thankfully felt free of any fever. 

‘Are my friends well?’ Athos asked, taking another gulp of wine and resting his head against the headboard behind him. 

‘Fighting fit,’ a voice groaned from the corner before Victor could answer the question. Porthos pushed himself upright, sitting at the side of the bed and stretching his back. He sighed as he felt the bones crack, turning his head from side to side to check his concussion. While the headache remained, it was a dull ache rather than the sharp stabs he had been subject to earlier. 

‘Clearly,’ Athos smirked, nodding at Porthos when he met his eyes. 

‘More importantly how are you? We were worried,’ Porthos stated as he stood from the bed to pour himself some wine. 

‘Sore,’ Athos admitted, ‘but I will survive. What happened to you two?’ 

‘Concussion. Bastards got us good,’ Porthos growled as he remembered the sound Aramis had made when his shoulder had been injured. 

As though Aramis could tell what Porthos was thinking, he let out a moan as he peeled his eyes open. 

‘Why are you so loud in the mornings?’ He whined, pulling the blankets closer to his body and nuzzling his head further into the pillow beneath his aching head. 

‘It is not morning yet,’ Porthos confirmed, pulling back the covering to look into the dark and rainy night, ‘Besides you should really be used to us by now.’ 

Aramis scoffed and rolled his eyes at the larger man. 

‘I could never get used to you dear Porthos.’ 

Porthos grinned, downing the wine before lying back down on the bed. He looked over as though noticing Victor standing by the door for the first time. 

‘Thank you for your help and hospitality monsieur, I promise you will be rewarded before we leave,’ Porthos assured the smaller man, his eyes already closing as his headache started abating. 

‘Where is D’Artagnan?’ Athos asked, stretching his legs to test the pain. He was surprised to feel that, apart from the obvious burning from the pull of the stitches, the pain was almost bearable. D’Artagnan had done a good job, he thought, silently beaming to himself. 

‘He must be in one of the other rooms. There are only 3 beds in here, and he would need to rest. He exhausted himself taking care of all of us. I’m also not convinced he wasn’t hurt himself,’ Aramis explained, reluctantly pushing himself out of the bed to go and check his brothers. While he had undoubted faith in D’Artagnan’s abilities at fixing his brothers’ wounds, he wasn’t a trained medic and Aramis wanted to be sure that there would be no complications. 

‘Aye, the lad did well to stitch you up,’ Porthos agreed as Aramis came over and checked him over. 

‘Concussion is still there but your pupils are looking much better. I think you will survive,’ Aramis joked, squeezing Porthos’ shoulder. 

Porthos scowled light heartedly, shoving Aramis off his bed and towards Athos. 

Victor suddenly felt his mouth go dry and wasn’t sure how to get the words out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out D’Artagnan’s leather purse, holding it firmly in his hand. 

Athos seemed to notice the movement and glanced down. 

‘That is D’Artagnan’s,’ Athos stated, pushing himself upright as Victor nodded. 

‘Tell me the lad isn’t going to try to pay for all of this,’ Porthos shook his head, ‘I know I jest about him paying his fair share as the youngest Musketeer but the boy barely has 2 sous to rub together.’ 

Victor shook his head, handing the purse over into Athos’ outstretched hand. 

‘He tried to but I refused.’ 

Aramis smiled brightly at him.

‘Thank you monsieur. We will ensure that you are paid. Could you please return this to D’Artagnan and ask him to join us if he is awake?’ 

Victor felt a cold chill rush over him. How was he supposed to tell these men what had befallen their friend. 

‘D’Artagnan isn’t here,’ the words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. Athos’ brows lowered as he stared at him. 

‘What do you mean he isn’t here? Where would he go? It’s the middle of the night.’ 

‘The men who attacked you on the road came looking for you. They attacked me and I was outnumbered. They were going to come and hurt you further but D’Artagnan agreed to take them to get the letter that you had hidden,’ Victor explained, wringing his hands in front of him. 

Athos felt ill as he reached over to where his doublet lay on the ground beside his bed. He opened the hidden pocket and pulled out the sealed envelope. 

‘Oh God,’ Victor whispered as he looked at the soldiers in front of him. 

‘Stupid boy,’ Porthos cursed, running his hand through his hair. 

‘Get dressed, we have to get him,’ Athos struggled to push himself up. 

‘You’re not able to go anywhere,’ Aramis scolded, attempting to push him back down. 

‘It’s D’Artagnan,’ Athos simply stated, staring deep into Aramis’ eyes. The medic nodded and rushed over to his cot to get dressed. Athos was right. This was D’Artagnan.


	5. Chapter 5

D’Artagnan honestly couldn’t remember a time when he was colder or more wet as his horse plodded forward. He was in the middle of the band of bandits, presumably so they were confident he couldn’t escape them. He kept his eyes focused on the road ahead of him, trying to negotiate around the river-like puddles without falling out of his saddle. He had to brace his knees against his horse’s flank to give himself some stability before he fell to the ground. 

He felt a definite fever coursing through his body. He sighed inwardly as he reached up to wipe away the sweat building under his bangs. His wound was infected, there was no doubt about that. He knew the stitches had pulled before he had left the inn but had not been given any time or means to restitch them. That was around an hour ago by his reckoning but he couldn’t be positive. He was so focused on trying to stay upright and notice anything that might help him escape to focus on the time. 

He just hoped his brothers were okay. Victor had promised to look after them but it was different; Victor wasn’t family and he only trusted family to look after them. 

He was jolted out of his thoughts when his horse stopped. He looked up in surprise to see the gang had stopped beside an outcrop of trees and they were descending from their horses. 

‘What’s going on?’ D’Artagnan croaked out, coughing to clear his throat. His voice felt weak from lack of use since they set of on his imaginary hunt for a letter he knew was tucked up safely in Athos’ doublet. 

‘Can’t see anything through the rain,’ one of the men ground out, tethering his horse to a nearby branch. ‘Might as well wait it out.’ 

D’Artagnan began to nod in agreement when he was unceremoniously pulled from his horse’s back and dumped in the mud. He struggled to suck in a breath when his lungs were winded and he looked around him in a panic. 

Felix was standing above him, smirking. He turned and went under the shelter of the trees, motioning to Pierre to get D’Artagnan. 

Pierre smiled apologetically as D’Artagnan as he grabbed him by his elbow and helped him to his feet. 

‘Are you okay?’ He asked softly, looking to see if anyone else noticed that he was speaking with their prisoner. 

‘I’ve been better,’ D’Artagnan admitted with a huff of laughter, wriggling his wrists in the ropes to ease the burn. Pierre started leading him underneath the shelter of the trees when a shout startled him. 

‘No, he stays out there,’ Felix sneered, ‘Teach him a lesson.’ 

Pierre hesitated for a moment too long and Felix glared at him. With a resigned sigh, Pierre brought D’Artagnan to a tree completely unsheltered. He attached another rope to his already bound hands and tied it tightly around the trunk of the tree. 

‘Sorry,’ Pierre apologised, and as far as D’Artagnan could see he was sincere. From his seated position the rain stabbed at his face and he could feel the slick mixture of mud and blood congealing against his wound. 

Resting his head against the trunk of the tree, and knowing he would not get any rest from the elements, his mind jumped between trying to find a way out of this mess and praying someone would help him. 

\----------

By the time the 3 soldiers had gotten themselves dressed and ready to leave the inn, a thin sheen of sweat had formed on Athos’ forehead and upper lip. He heaved a breath as he started limping out of the room, his hands curled into fists at his sides. 

‘I really don’t think you should be going,’ Aramis sighed, fixing his cape over his shoulder and wincing at the pull of the muscle. He wasn’t 100% himself but he was still in much better shape than his comrade. 

‘We have to find him,’ Athos ordered. Aramis shook his head and started heading for the door. 

‘Wait,’ Porthos stopped them before they could leave, his eyes trained on Victor who had remained quiet in the corner of the room. 

‘Where are D’Artagnan’s things? Surely he didn’t take them with him?’ Porthos questioned, stepping towards the innkeeper. Victor shook his head in response.

‘No,’ he started, heading out of the room and down the hallway, ‘He asked if he could use this room,’ He finished, pointing at the closed door in front of them. 

Aramis turned the handle and stepped in, taking a look around the sparse room. His footsteps froze as he seen the bloodied bandages on the bed along with his needle. 

‘Oh God, he was hurt,’ Aramis hissed as he picked up the bandages to examine them. ‘And by the looks of these it wasn’t a small wound.’ 

If possible Athos’ face darkened more.

‘How did we not know?’ He queried, all the more determined to find his youngest brother and, providing he wasn’t in too much danger, knock some sense into him. 

‘He’s good at hiding things he doesn’t want us to know about,’ Porthos shrugged, plonking his hat on his head and heading down the stairs towards the door. 

‘You will keep our things safe, monsieur?’ Aramis asked Victor as he grabbed the man’s arm. ‘We will return as soon as we can.’ 

Victor could only nod in response. He barely knew these men and yet he was feeling terrified for them and for the fate of the young man that had accompanied them. 

‘We will bring him back,’ Aramis nodded, a reassuring smile offered in the innkeeper’s direction. 

Without further hesitation the three men headed out into the dark and cold night to find their brother. 

\----------

D’Artagnan was trying his hardest to suppress the shivers that were coursing through his body but the harder he braced his muscles and clenched his teeth the more his body ached and his jaw threatened to snap. He sucked in a shaky breath and exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes focused on the trees in front of him. He needed a plan. He wasn’t as good as Aramis at thinking on his feet but if he was ever going to better his skills, now was the time. 

He briefly considered leading the bandits in a circle back towards the inn, hoping that his brothers had had enough time to rest and nurse their wounds that they would ready for battle. But as quickly as the thought was in his head he pushed it back out. He would not risk them. He could fix this himself. 

He was thinking about the merits of making a run for it as soon as he was unbound from the tree when Pierre suddenly appeared in front of him, a dark hood over his head and shadowing his face from the rain. He was proud of the fact that he hadn’t physically started but his heart betrayed his anxiety. 

‘Here,’ Pierre spoke softly, holding a cup out in front of him. D’Artagnan looked at it dubiously, frowning at the man in front of him 

‘Just water, I swear it. You’re no good to us if you’re dead, and you don’t look the best.’

D’Artagnan gripped the cup with trembling fingers and downed the liquid so quickly he barely tasted it. 

‘Thank you,’ D’Artagnan said honestly, handing the cup back to his captor. 

‘Are you alright? You don’t look well,’ Pierre all but whispered, glancing over his shoulder to see if the other bandits were aware he was speaking with their hostage. When no one was looking back at him he turned back to D’Artagnan. 

‘Nothing to concern yourself with. I will deal with it when I am free,’ D’Artagnan jutted his chin out. Despite how utterly terrible he may feel he was still a Musketeer and had a reputation to live up to. 

‘You’re very sure of yourself,’ Pierre huffed with laughter, standing up from his crouched position and folding his arms across his chest against the wind. 

‘I’m a Musketeer,’ D’Artagnan shrugged, pushing his soaking hair back from his face and glaring at the man before him. 

Pierre was about to respond when a hard hand smacked the back of his head and he fell forward almost on top of D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan pulled his legs up to his chest to brace himself for the impact and moaned at the pull of his wounded side. He felt nauseous and altogether too warm however he opened his eyes from where they had shut on instinct when nothing hit him. 

Pierre had stopped himself from falling by using the tree D’Artagnan was currently tied to and was frowning at the man standing behind him. 

‘What are you doing?’ Felix all but shouted, ‘I told you to give him water, not to make friends.’ 

‘I-I was hoping he might tell me where the letter was hidden if I was kind to him,’ Pierre stuttered an explanation. He yelped despite himself when Felix’s fist flew towards his face and slammed into his cheek. 

‘Don’t lie to me. I knew you were always too soft for this,’ Felix spat with a shake of his head as he stalked away from the pair. 

D’Artagnan watched in confusion as Pierre rubbed the tears that had gathered in his eyes and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. 

‘Why do you stay with him?’ D’Artagnan asked, adjusting himself against the tree and hissing at the burn in his side. Pierre shrugged with a sad smile.

‘He’s my brother.’

\-------

Aramis found himself riding closer and closer to Athos’ mount as they hunted for their brother. He watched from under his soaked hat as Athos’ shoulders drooped and he struggled to maintain focus. 

‘You should be in bad,’ he shouted over the rain, returning the scowl that Athos threw in his direction. 

‘I will return to bed when D’Artagnan has been found so the sooner he is back with us the sooner we can return to the inn. Happy?’

‘Not by a long shot my friend but it will have to do,’ Aramis sighed from beside him, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the residual pain in his muscles. 

‘Have you seen any more tracks, Porthos?’ Athos called over to his other brother whose head was ducked down as he watched the ground in front of them. 

‘We’re following them the best we can but the rain is washing them away,’ Porthos growled in frustration in return. He wanted nothing more than to find his wayward little brother and both hug and throttle him. Especially now that he knew D’Artagnan was injured he was struggling to keep his protectiveness down. And it was hard enough for him to control when Athos was physically wilting beside him. 

‘We should stop for rest, Athos. I want to take a look at that leg and check for infection,’ Aramis all but pleaded but a sharp ‘No’ from the other Musketeers had him sighing. 

‘We stop when we find D’Artagnan,’ Athos explained, adjusting himself in his saddle and trying desperately not to move his injured leg. He could feel a fever coursing through his body and his thigh throbbed with every move of his horse but he couldn’t rest. He had been injured worse and would grin and bear it until they were reunited and back at the inn. 

‘This way!’ Porthos shouted excitedly beside them, leading his horse and his brothers off the pathway and towards an outcrop of trees. ‘The tracks go this way. I think we’re close.’ 

Aramis grinned and nudged Athos’ horse in the correct direction earning himself a glare as Athos pushed himself further upright. 

‘Let’s go get our brother back!’


	6. Chapter 6

Pulling his eyes open from where they had involuntarily shut, D’Artagnan glanced around him to try and gauge how long his eyes had been closed. He was sure he had blacked out for a few minutes; the fuzzy feeling in his head and the stickiness of his eyes confirmed his thoughts. He watched as the bandits huddled around their fire, the smell of cooking meat making his stomach growl and he tried to remember the last time he had eaten anything substantial. 

His eyes locked on Pierre, sat by himself at the edge of the group, a dagger in his hand as he drew pictures in the dirt before him. The rain had thankfully ceased for now and he was able to make out the bruise developing on the young man’s cheek, his cloak wrapped up around his shoulders, almost trying to hide from the rest of the group. For a moment D’Artagnan felt sorry for him.

He knew what it felt like to be the outsider; the Musketeers had such a strong bond that when he initially joined them as recruit he felt like he was always shadowing them, clinging to their friendship but not quite fitting in. It had taken months before his friends had convinced him that he was welcome. Looking back, it sounded ridiculous. His brothers had never made him feel anything but welcome. 

A round of raucous laughter had D’Artagnan glaring at his captors and wishing he had a weapon to shut them up. He was tired and hungry and his body thrummed in agony. As much as he was loath to admit it, he would love one of Aramis’ horrible pain draughts, even just to dull the pain for a while. 

He tugged at his bonds again but to no avail. He was only rubbing his wrists raw and it was one more injury he would have to deal with when he was free. He pulled his knees back up to his chest, hoping to draw some heat into his body. The rain may have stopped but the wind hadn’t and the chill tore through his body. 

D’Artagnan felt his head dropping down to his chest, his eyes struggling to remain open when he heard it. A bird call. Three to be precise. And he knew they could only come from one person. Without raising his head and attracting attention from his captors he lifted his eyes to the far treeline and caught Aramis’ dark eyes staring back at him, his hat low over his face. Aramis nodded and flashed him a quick smile before disappearing behind a tree.

He knew that Porthos and Athos were with him and that worried him more than being defenceless, tied to a tree. He knew his brothers were too injured to be involved in a fight, especially Athos and particularly against a group of uninjured bandits. 

He had no more time to think when a shot rang out through the trees and one of the bandits near the fire collapsed, his chest still. His remaining captors panicked and ran around the camp gathering weapons and looking to try and find their assailants. 

Another gunshot rang out and another bandit fell to the dirt. D’Artagnan pulled at his bonds in frustration. He was a sitting duck tied to the tree and without a weapon to defend himself. No sooner had he thought that than Pierre landed with a thump beside him and started sawing through the ropes that secured him to the tree. 

‘Why?’ Was all D’Artagnan could get out as he watched the dagger cut through the ropes. 

‘He’s gone too far,’ Pierre spoke with the most confidence D’Artagnan had heard him with. He pulled D’Artagnan to his feet, the musketeer groaning as his side stretched, and handed him the dagger. D’Artagnan nodded at the young man and surveyed the battlefield around him. Aramis and Porthos were over to his left, swords in hand and clashing with two bandits each. Athos was to his right, obviously favouring his injured leg and fighting one of his captors but it was clear that his energy was flagging. 

Figuring that Aramis and Porthos could hold their own, D’Artagnan charged over towards Athos and he reached him just before Felix attacked, firing a shot that went wide into the trees. D’Artagnan glared and raised his dagger, standing in front of a now opponent-less Athos. He could feel Athos’ warm body behind him, his hand gripping his shoulder in support and relief.

‘Surrender and we will spare your life,’ D’Artagnan promised, trying his damndest to keep the dagger in his hand from trembling along with the rest of his body. He knew that Athos could feel it; he could probably feel the heat of his skin pouring through his shirt but that was an issue for later. Now they had to get out safely and preferably without any further injuries. 

‘Somehow I doubt that,’ Felix sneared, his sword raised and pointed at D’Artagnan’s chest. The two glared at each other for what felt like hours before Pierre jumped in beside Felix. 

‘Let them go,’ Pierre pleaded, pulling at his brother’s jacket sleeve. ‘We don’t need the money and they said they would let us go. Please Felix.’ 

D’Artagnan didn’t have time to take a breath as he watched Felix move his sword from his chest and drove it into Pierre’s. Pierre’s eyes went wide and D’Artagnan watched in horror as blood gushed from the wound and the young man dropped to his knees. His mouth gulped for air and he raised his eyes to his brother, tears falling down his cheeks. 

‘You were always such a disappointment,’ Felix spat as he watched Pierre crumple to the ground, his eyes closed and his chest still. 

‘No!’ D’Artagnan shouted as he grabbed Athos’ sword from his hand and lunged at Felix. Porthos and Aramis had finished disposing of their opponents and rushed over to their two friends, Aramis quickly grabbing Athos before he crumpled to the ground and holding him up. The musketeers watched their friend battle, ready to jump in and assist if needed. 

‘He was your brother!’ D’Artagnan yelled, slamming his sword against Felix’s with a ferocity that momentarily stunned his captor. 

‘He was useless. He was too soft,’ Felix replied, thrusting his sword forward and nicking D’Artagnan’s collar bone. D’Artagnan barely felt it as he attacked again, pushing forward and forward until Felix tripped over one of his fellow comrades and D’Artagnan thrust the sword into his chest. 

‘He was your brother,’ D’Artagnan repeated, tears pooling in his eyes, ‘The rest doesn’t matter.’ Felix’s face paled and his head slumped into the dirt, a heavy breath leaving his lips as his body stilled. 

D’Artagnan fought to control his emotions as he felt Porthos sidle up beside him, slapping a hand onto his shoulder. 

‘You alright?’ Porthos asked with as much gentleness as he could muster. D’Artagnan turned to face him, noting the new growing bruise on his cheek and the dirt streaked across his face. 

‘I’m fine, are you?’ D’Artagnan threw the question back, turning away from Porthos and heading back to the other soldiers. Porthos sighed in frustration and followed him. They all knew D’Artagnan’s version of ‘fine’ and theirs were extremely different. 

Aramis didn’t have time to question D’Artagnan about his hidden injury before he felt Athos lean his weight into him and he had to push his legs into the ground. 

‘A little help here,’ Aramis huffed as he held onto his eldest brother, supporting him before he fell to the dirt. Porthos rushed over and grabbed Athos’ other arm and flung it over his shoulder, taking the majority of the weight from Aramis. 

‘We need to get back to the inn. I need to examine Athos’ leg and I’m eager to see what our young friend has been hiding from us,’ Aramis stared knowingly at D’Artagnan, smirking when the boy had the decency to look embarrassed. 

‘What about the bodies?’ D’Artagnan asked as he limped over to Pierre and crouched down beside him. ‘He didn’t deserve this. He tried to help me.’ 

Aramis nodded in reply. 

‘We’ll inform the local gendarmes when we return to the inn and we will see that he gets a proper burial,’ Aramis promised, grasping D’Artagnan’s shoulder in support and frowning at the trembling he felt coursing through his friend’s body. 

D’Artagnan sighed and nodded, pushing himself to his feet. He forced himself to stand straight and not curl over his injured side. He could deal with it back at the inn. He started walking back over to Porthos and Athos, concern growing as he saw Athos’ eyes were closed and Porthos was looking worriedly at him. 

‘He’ll be fine when I get a chance to look at that leg,’ Aramis explained knowingly as he led D’Artagnan’s horse over the group and handed the reigns to the boy. D’Artagnan took them gratefully and patted the horse’s neck. 

‘Did I do something wrong?’ D’Artagnan asked, worrying his lower lip in his teeth as he glanced between Aramis and Athos. 

‘You did nothing wrong,’ Aramis promised, his hand resting on the back of D’Artagnan’s neck and giving it a reassuring squeeze, ‘He has a fever; it could be infection or it could just be his body reacting to the injury. The fever is not high and he will be fine.’ Aramis smiled at D’Artagnan, squeezed his neck once more before walking over and gathering the remaining horses. 

‘I will ride with Athos to ensure he doesn’t fall off his horse. He would be most embarrassed should that happen,’ Aramis explained with a smirk, pulling himself into his saddle and helping Porthos and D’Artagnan get Athos onto the horse in front of him. D’Artagnan groaned and bent over when Athos was safely situated on the horse and struggled to catch his breath. 

‘Okay, pup?’ Porthos asked, a warm hand resting between his shoulder blades and he breathed in as deeply as his ribs would let him. 

‘I will be,’ D’Artagnan assured him as he straightened himself, his hand going to his side as the burning of his wound became too much for him to ignore. 

‘Let’s get back and get that looked at, hmm?’ Porthos asked, his hand still on D’Artagnan’s back and pushed him gently towards his horse. ‘Are you alright to ride by yourself?’ 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and pulled himself into his saddle, pushing down the nausea that grew in his chest and the darkness that curled around the edges of his vision. He clicked his tongue and led his horse forward, doing his best to stop his body trembling. They needed to get back to the inn as quickly as possible and get Athos’ injury looked at. 

And as much as D’Artagnan hated to admit it, he himself was far from fine.


	7. Chapter 7

While the rain had stopped, the sun had yet to make an appearance and the wind only seemed stronger and colder than before. D’Artagnan tried valiantly to suppress the shudder that ran through him but found that tensing his muscles made them ache far worse than before. His eyes were glued on Aramis’ horse, watching intently as Aramis kept Athos’ unconscious body steady. He could see Aramis’ lips moving but the words were lost on the wind. 

‘He’s going to be fine y’know,’ Porthos’ voice had him jumping in his saddle and he let out an inadvertent groan as his side pulled painfully. He threw a glare in Porthos’ direction but it was only met with a smirk. 

‘He will be fine,’ Porthos repeated, his leg brushing against his youngest brother’s. D’Artagnan could only nod in response, forcing his body to suppress another chill that ran through him. He could feel Porthos’ eyes staring at him but he ignored him. He was focusing all of his energy on keeping himself upright in his saddle but his reserves were depleting rapidly. He was starting to worry he wouldn’t reach the inn. 

‘Where are you hurt?’ Porthos asked, reaching a hand over and gripping the back of D’Artagnan’s neck. He could feel the slim body trembling against him and his concern ratchetted higher. 

‘Hurt my side a bit,’ D’Artagnan shrugged, unconsciously leaning into his brother’s touch, the warm skin feeling so wonderfully reassuring. 

‘A bit?’ Porthos echoed, an eyebrow raised to show how unconvinced he was by the boy’s self-diagnosis. 

‘Maybe more than a bit,’ D’Artagnan smiled back at his brother, wrapping one arm around himself and laying a hand gently against the torn wound. His body ached and, although he could feel shivers running through him and his body was trembling with cold, his forehead was dotted with sweat and his skin felt like it was burning. 

‘Aramis will take a look at you when we get back to the inn. We’ll take care of you,’ Porthos promised, his hand squeezing D’Artagnan’s neck. He could feel the boy nodding against his hand and he was reluctant to remove it. D’Artagnan needed comfort and if this was the only thing he could offer him then he would be damned if he took it away from him. 

Up ahead of them Athos’ eyes fluttered open and he gazed at the scene in front of him from where his head rested against Aramis’ shoulder. He tried to piece together what had happened and where he was. There was no denying he was on a horse, that much was obvious, but he couldn’t place exactly how he had gotten there. 

‘You passed out,’ Aramis interrupted his thoughts. Having been watching his eldest brother so intently, he knew the second he had regained consciousness and knew that he would be disorientated. 

‘D’Artagnan?’ Athos croaked out, turning his head from side to side to see if he could see the other soldiers. 

‘With Porthos,’ Aramis reassured, ‘He’ll keep him safe until we get back to the inn. I want to take a look at your leg and sort that fever.’ 

‘I’m fine. The stitches feel secure, I don’t think any have ripped. It just feels very tender,’ Athos confirmed as he reached a hand down and pressed it against his wound. 

‘I’m sure it is very tender, Athos. You were shot,’ Aramis deadpanned, grinning as Athos sighed in frustration. ‘But let me be the judge on how well you are.’ 

‘Sir, yes sir,’ Athos grunted back with a smirk, allowing himself a brief moment of weakness and dropping his head back to Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis tightened his arm around his friend’s waist but made no further acknowledgement. 

Aramis turned his head to look over his shoulder at his other brothers behind him. He could hear the pair talking but couldn’t make out the words that were being spoken. He was concerned about their youngest and the wound that he had been trying to conceal but he knew that Porthos would take care of him and stop him from doing anything stupid in his absence. Well, anything more stupid than sacrificing himself to a gang of bandits to save them. They were going to be having serious words when they reached the inn. 

He could see D’Artagnan gripping at his side and could see the blood covering his shirt and it did nothing to calm his nerves. He seen the boy leaning forward in his saddle until he was almost flush against his horse and heard a groan force its way from his lips. His eyes met Porthos’ and he raised his eyebrows in question. Porthos simple shook his head in response, his hand remaining on D’Artagnan’s neck. 

Porthos leant over until his head was level with D’Artagnan’s and Aramis could see his lips moving but couldn’t make out any of the words. He watched D’Artagnan’s head nod and Porthos shake his own and sigh loudly. Aramis smirked, imagining the conversation taking place. Turning his head forward he had never been more thankful to see the outline of the inn ahead of them, the light in the window his own beacon of hope. 

‘Nearly there,’ he muttered to Athos and he felt the body in front of him twitch and sit upright as though the information had given him a burst of energy. 

Aramis felt more than saw Porthos’ acknowledgment of the inn as both his and D’Artagnan’s horses strutted up beside them. Aramis couldn’t help but notice that Porthos had removed his hand from D’Artagnan’s neck but had taken full control of the reigns of his horse instead. Aramis shared a look with his brother and clicked his tongue to urge his horse forward. Athos’ horse followed quickly behind. 

No sooner had they reached the inn than several things happened. Victor greeted them at the door, the dawn light just peeking over the horizon to light the inn as though it were the holy grail. Porthos jumped off his horse just in time to rush over to the far side of D’Artagnan’s horse to catch his youngest brother as he let out a soft moan and slumped out of the saddle towards the ground. 

Porthos wrapped his arms around D’Artagnan’s waist in an effort to save him from hitting the dirt. He felt the wet blood of his brother’s shirt and heat of the wound and the touch was enough to send D’Artagnan from partial lucidity into full unconsciousness. Porthos watched in fear as D’Artagnan’s eyes rolled into his head and his head collapsed into Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos shouted Aramis’ name and he appeared beside him as if by magic. 

Aramis pulled off a glove and placed it against D’Artagnan’s forehead. 

‘Inside, now.’ 

Porthos slipped an arm under D’Artagnan’s knees and hoisted him into his chest, walking as fast as he could with the extra weight into the inn and following Victor up into the room they had shared before. He placed D’Artagnan onto the bed that he had previously occupied and turned to Aramis for further instruction. 

Aramis had already helped Athos sit on the bed he had resided in earlier that night and was in the process of ridding himself of his doublet and gloves. He crouched down beside D’Artagnan’s bed, helping Porthos strip D’Artagnan of his blood and dirt stained shirt. He clucked his tongue and sighed in annoyance as he seen the state his brother’s body was in. 

He reached for the wound on D’Artagnan’s side, noting with displeasure the weeping and swollen state. He touched it briefly and felt instantly uneasy with how hot the wound was. 

‘What’s the verdict?’ Athos spoke up from behind him and Aramis turned his head to face him briefly. 

‘Stab wound, deep enough to require stitching but all of them are torn. No doubt as a result of his midnight trip with his friends.’ 

Porthos returned to the room, the other soldiers unaware he had even left - he had a talent for that - and deposited Aramis’ medical equipment he had located next door in the room D’Artagnan had been using. He had also brought in the rest of the brandy and started pouring it over the equipment Aramis would need. 

‘I’m glad you have been paying attention dear Porthos. I’ll make a nurse out of you yet,’ Aramis joked with a smirk, taking the tweezers from Porthos’ hands and ignoring the fake scowl he received in return. 

Aramis started picking the ripped stitches out of D’Artagnan’s side as carefully as he could, dropping them into a bowl Porthos was holding beside him and wiping away the fresh blood that appeared on D’Artagnan’s skin. He stopped for a brief second when a moan wrenched itself from D’Artagnan’s lips and the boy’s head tossed on the pillow beneath it. 

Before anything could be said Athos appeared at Aramis’ other side, limping towards the bed. He sat himself at the head of the bed, pulling D’Artagnan’s head onto his lap and pushing his fingers into the boy’s dark hair to silence him. It worked instantly and Aramis resumed his surgery. Porthos smirked in Athos’ direction but it was lost when the eldest musketeer’s eyes remained on his young charge. 

D’Artagnan let out another moan and his eyelashes fluttered open. He blinked owlishly at Athos’ pale face above him and was momentarily confused as to why he was lying in the man’s lap. His memories came flooding back to him and he gasped as he tried to push himself upright. 

‘Oh no you don’t,’ Porthos grunted, placing a remarkably gentle hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder and pushing him back to where he had been. ‘Aramis is working hard to fix you, let’s not break you again quite so soon, hmm?’ 

D’Artagnan stared at Porthos, hearing the words but struggling to understand in his weariness. 

‘Athos, your leg…’ D’Artagnan started as he went to push himself up again. 

‘My leg is fine. You did well,’ Athos assured him, pulling his charge back down and placing a hand on his forehead. 

‘But Aramis said-’

‘Aramis will look at it once he is finished taking care of your wound. And, when you are feeling better, we are going to have a serious discussion about you putting yourself into unnecessary danger,’ Athos deadpanned as he looked down at the pale face of his youngest brother. The boy’s eyes gazed up at him with a trust that had Athos’ stomach dropping into his knees. 

‘And about you not telling us when you’re injured,’ Porthos chirped up from where he had positioned himself at the end of the bed, one hand on D’Artagnan’s shin. He watched as Aramis carefully removed the last of the stitches and placed them into the bowl he was holding.

‘There was no time,’ D’Artagnan croaked his argument, clearing his throat. ‘And you were all hurt, I had to take care of you.’ 

‘Which is admirable,’ Aramis assured him as he smiled, cleaning away the fresh blood that oozed from the wound, ‘But we need to take care of you as well. Remember that.’ 

D’Artagnan could only nod in response, swallowing down the nausea he felt as Aramis touched his side. The room was softening around the sides of his vision and it was only Athos’ hand on his head and Porthos’ hand on his leg that was keeping him present. He heard Aramis whisper an apology before he felt his side burning and he desperately tried to pull himself away from the pain. 

Aramis was shushing him and placing a cool hand on his chest. He blinked his eyes open from where they had fallen shut and stared at the blurred figures around him. He felt Athos clearing tears from his cheeks, unaware that they had fallen and he sucked in a shaky breath. 

‘You’re alright,’ Athos hushed him, his hand never budging from his head. D’Artagnan could only stare at him, his vision blurring and going white around the edges. He could feel Aramis wiping his side again and felt the needle pierce his skin and he gasped. It hadn’t felt as sore when he had done it himself. He let out a pitiful moan and turned his head away from the medic. 

‘D’Artagnan?’ Athos called, leaning closer to his youngest brother to gain his attention. But it was no use. D’Artagnan shook his head to clear his vision but it only resulted in stars crossing his vision and he was only aware of his name being called by his brothers before he let out a sigh and closed his eyes. 

‘He’s out,’ Athos confirmed, pushing D’Artagnan’s sweat soaked hair away from the boy’s face and staring down at him. 

‘He will be fine,’ Aramis assured him, not taking his eyes off his stitching in front of him, ‘And that’s my definition of fine, not his.’ 

Porthos chuckled and stood from the bed, pulling D’Artagnan’s boots off and draping him with a blanket. He left the room in search of food and wine, leaving his other brothers to deal with their youngest. 

Aramis finished the stitches and tied them off, washing his hands in the bucket beside him before grabbing a bandage and wrapping it around his wound. Athos helped lift the prone body upright, crossing D’Artagnan’s arms across his chest as Aramis wrapped the bandages across the boy’s torso and knotted it at his side. 

Athos replaced D’Artagnan on the bed, adjusting the pillow under his head and pulling the blanket up to under his chin, tucking them around the slumbering body. He turned around in time to see Aramis smirking and patting the other bed beside him. 

Athos rolled his eyes and collapsed onto the mattress beside him, stretching his leg out with a grunt. Helping him remove his trousers, leaving him in his braies, Aramis checked the stitches and nodded in contentment. 

‘The boy did well, these are strong. No infection and they’ve held. You’ll be sore for a while but you will be fine.’ 

‘Aramis, I am well. I have been shot before you know,’ Athos deadpanned, standing up and sitting in the chair that Aramis had previous occupied beside D’Artagnan’s bed.

‘And isn’t that a ringing endorsement for Musketeering,’ Aramis laughed, slumping onto the cot he had previously occupied. Porthos returned with a tray of food and Victor snuck in behind him carrying several bottles of wine. 

‘We are in your debt, Monsieur,’ Aramis smiled as he removed his boots and threw them to the side of the cot. 

‘No, the boy saved my life. I am in his debt,’ Victor smiled and nodded at the soldiers. He slipped out of the room and closed the door silently behind him. 

Athos smiled down at the unconscious boy in front of him and pushed the damp hair back from his brother’s forehead. He left his hand on the boy’s warm forehead and released a sigh. 

Aramis and Porthos shared a smirk and started pouring wine and fixing plates of food. It felt like a long time before dawn. 

When D’Artagnan awoke the world was fuzzy and it took him several minutes before he could make out where he was. His side felt raw and he moved his hand to touch it. 

‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he heard Porthos’ gruff voice from beside him and turned his head to look at his brother with a frown. ‘Aramis will be very upset if you ruin his fine stitching.’ 

D’Artagnan blinked at him before pushing himself upright. Porthos tutted and helped him sit up against the headboard. 

‘Are you well?’ D’Artagnan asked, coughing to clear his throat and humming in appreciation when a cup appeared before him. Aramis smiled as he handed the water over and set down beside D’Artagnan’s covered feet, his hand gripping his brother’s ankle. 

‘We are all fine, thanks to you,’ Aramis watched as D’Artagnan downed the cup of water, grimacing at the bitter taste of the pain reliever Aramis had mixed into it. He slumped against the headboard and Porthos helped him lie back down, ignoring his protests. 

‘Athos?’ D’Artagnan questioned, wincing as the stitches in his side pulled. His wide eyes looked from Aramis to Porthos. 

‘Is fine. Get some rest. We will talk about your self-sacrificing nature when you wake,’ Athos called out from his bed, his injured leg resting on a pillow in front of him. Porthos shifted so D’Artagnan could see his mentor and smirked as his youngest brother visabilly wilted at the sight of their leader. 

Aramis could see D’Artagnan had more questions but the boy was physically wilting before them, his eyelids already drooping. 

‘Rest, D’Artagnan. We will talk when you are awake. 

D’Artagnan barely nodded and closed his eyes, his body relaxing under the blankets. He fell asleep quickly, helped along by Aramis’ pain draught. 

The other musketeers relaxed in relief; their brother would be fine. They would take a few days to recover then return home with the knowledge that their brotherhood was stronger than ever.


End file.
